John the Baptist

The memories are sketchy. I was maybe seven years old and the teachers had arranged an Easter egg hunt for the class. We filed down the stairs to the yard in the back of the school, lined up against a wall that was bleeding paint chips. The structural integrity of the school left a lot to be desired. It was decades removed from any kind of worthwhile maintenance. The yards however, they were quite lovely from what I remember. We were told it was because the yard was tended to by local parishioners of the church that bordered us, not that we really cared.

All that mattered were the monkey bars, the swings and the see saw which sat in a lonely corner of the yard, away from the plush gardens; almost as if an afterthought in spite of the utility of recess.

The only part of the hunt I remember was finding an Easter egg tucked at the base of a tree. I pretended I didn’t see it, in spite of the bright infusion it threw inside the pale dirt. I was waiting for Patty, who in spite of my best judgment, had become my school girlfriend. Truth be told, outside of the thunder claps of blonde hair that sprouted from her pigtails, we shared no kismet. She thought me a ‘bad boy’ for cursing all the time, and I found it repugnant that she couldn’t do a better job of wiping her nose. Yet somehow, we had forged a strange alliance. We looked out for each other, as if we knew there were struggles we had endured far beyond the walls of a school.

So when I found that Easter egg nestled inside the veins of a big old tree, I waited for her. She hadn’t found an egg to that point, and I felt badly for my gal pal. I remember just standing guard, waiting for her to arrive when a teacher came up to me, bent down and picked up the egg and said something to the effect of,

“Oh for God’s sakes! It’s right here!”

I don’t remember the teacher, but I do remember hating her for killing my moment. And I remember carrying that hate with me for the rest of the day. The world was full of adults who wanted to steal your dreams before they got started.

After school, I was ushered back to the yard with the other kids whose parents schedules conflicted with the end of the school day. For the span of an hour or more, we would entertain ourselves with war games and marbles and school gossip.

Me? I usually just wanted to run, until I got to anywhere else. This entailed scaling a tall, chain link fence that surrounded the yard. After which one of the Baptist kids who volunteered to watch us would have to give chase. My legs were filled with rocket fuel on this particular day, and if memory serves me right, I made it a couple city blocks before being caught.

The kid’s name was John. A tall and lanky, clean cut high school student who never lost his cool. No matter how hard I tried. He must’ve chased me down dozens of times, and never once did he utter a bad word or flash me a disjointed look. He would simply walk me back to the school yard, every single time.

There we were, sitting in exhausted heaps on the cool concrete sidewalk, not saying a word to each other; simply trying to get back to even before returning to the yard. I was a kid who hated adults and Jesus and anything that ever tried to tell me the what’s what, but try as I might? I couldn’t hate John. We walked back to the school in silence as I tried to find a reason to believe in the world.

It’s a wonder kids from that era aren’t more messed up. My kids used to whinge about some of the strictness of heavy-handed nuns but learned how to not misbehave and turned into decent, kind, law abiding peeps. #miracles

I think it’s because, for the most part, the adversity played out in real time. It didn’t fester. Later on, I was bullied for a while. But even then, when I finally fought back, that was it. I settled it, we settled it.

As I got older, I ran with a less than proper crowd. Mafia kids who got whatever they wanted. But even they had lines they would not cross. They were respectful to (most) adults and they didn’t talk back to mom and dad.

Ahh, those were the days. Now you have kids who scream “you’re not the boss of me” if you try to correct aberrant behavior. Little toads! Yeah, I probably am part of the “get off my lawn” brigade these days. 🤬

Thank you lovely. This one was a once and done, meaning I just sat down and wrote it without measuring twice, no editing, excepting for the end line. Just as I remember it. Which, it is sketchy as to whether I was six or seven, since we lived in Miami for a couple years and they run together for me. Couldn’t tell you which.

I was dating, smoking, cussing. REAL bad ass, lol.

John was just different. I’m glad he was chasing my punk ass down after school and not in Vietnam. Because the world needed, and will always need, that kind of person.

Great story, Marc. Brought back memories of my schoolyard in Detroit. The yard was composed entirely of gritty gravel. I think it was pulverized limestone. The only value to us was the fact that you could draw tough football plays in it. God help anyone who fell down. A purple heart for sure and maybe a scar for life. I think I had the same girlfriend. It was not to be and she threw me over for a guy named Murray. Can you imagine? Murray. Your piece is an excellent post for memories. Happy Easter, Pilgrim.

Hahaha! That’s so true about those little love triangles. It was ALWAYS some dude you know you could have run rings around later in life, but in elementary school . . the playing field was too damned level!

The yard was a proving ground, and truth be told, I miss those days. Problems were solved, alliances made. Life was never simple, but it was simpler inside those confines.